


One Day Like This

by RobinLeStrange



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: 2014, Arsenal win for a change, Brunch, Burlesque, Cake, Charlotte's put a spanner in the works, F/M, Football, Robin's 30th Birthday, Rokeby siblings, Strike's 40th Birthday, Uncle Ted gives Corm a good talking to, pub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:27:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21525973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLeStrange/pseuds/RobinLeStrange
Summary: It's 2014 and the weekend of Strike's 40th birthday. His friends have planned all kinds of celebrations, but will a  past indiscretion with Charlotte stand in the way of him getting what he really wants?Have gone with the dates from 2014, so Strike's birthday falls on the Sunday.
Relationships: Charlotte Campbell Ross/Cormoran Strike, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike, Robin Ellacott/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 109





	1. An Imagined Affair

**Author's Note:**

> A sky as black as regret  
> Is rolling aside for the blue  
> Impossible face to forget  
> These feelings belong in a zoo
> 
> She brings the morning  
> She, she brings the morning sun
> 
> An Imagined Affair - Elbow

**Friday 21st November 2014**

Strike popped the cap on a second bottle of Doom Bar and channel hopped unenthusiastically through the best Sky had to offer in the way of Friday night TV. He regretted now not heading to the pub, but it was late, cold and he’d already showered and taken off his prosthesis.

It was the eve of his fortieth birthday weekend, and, of course, Charlotte’s fortieth birthday, falling as it did just two days before his own. He could think of better ways to spend it than alone with his thoughts, particularly for an extended period of time. Barclay and Hutchins had been out on surveillance for most of the day as had his two newest freelance investigators. Robin had taken the afternoon off to help Ilsa with the birthday celebrations they’d been plotting for him, much to his chagrin.

The front pages of several celebrity glossy magazines had screamed from the newsstands that Charlotte would be celebrating her fortieth with not just a birthday party, but a renewal of her marriage vows – a romantic conclusion to the well-publicised ‘incident’ with her one-legged, war veteran former lover of the previous year. Jago’s acceptance and forgiveness was writ large in the extravagance of the plans afoot for an intimate but luxurious occasion at the boutique hotel in Paris famed for having once welcomed Oscar Wilde through its gleaming doors.

Meanwhile, Strike was left burning with anger and shame at the memory of the evening which probably counted as one of the biggest mistakes of his life. He wondered, not for the first time, where he and Robin might be now, had it not been for that one mortifying, epic fuck-up.

The tone of their relationship had changed almost immediately after she had left Matthew, returning to the relaxed, easy-going friendship and working relationship that they’d enjoyed prior to her marriage, but better. Increasingly, he’d allowed himself to believe that taking things further would be a possibility, but he’d been determined to allow her time and space to get through the divorce. Matthew had cajoled her to reconsider her decision for several months after she had decamped to Vanessa Ekwensi’s sofa, claiming to have finished with Sarah Shadlock, and making all kinds of promises in the hopes of winning her back. Eventually, Robin had told him that there was no point delaying the inevitable and she was filing for divorce, upon which Sarah had made a rapid reappearance, confirming Robin’s long-held suspicion that Matthew had never actually ended the affair and that Sarah had been unaware of his overtures towards her.  
  
The situation itself had not bothered Robin in the slightest. What had irked her, and she’d confided as much to Strike over a glass of wine too many sat outside the Cambridge one sunny evening, was the amount of time she felt she’d wasted with Matthew, not least the last couple of years during which their relationship had floundered on against her better judgement.

He remembered that evening as vividly as if it had been this summer, not over a year previously. Sitting in the balmy twilight, mellow with alcohol they had been closer than ever, sharing first banter, then confidences as the night wore on. She’d tucked her arm through his as he’d walked her back to the Tube and he’d gently tugged her closer as they walked. He’d kissed her on the cheek before she slipped through the turnstiles - both of them taking slightly longer than necessary to let go of the other - and watched as she’d headed toward the escalators. When she’d turned to smile back at him before they’d carried her away, he’d been certain it was time.

Then, forty-eight hours later, Charlotte happened.

It had turned out to be yet another of her stunts. Incandescent with rage after Jago had failed to do her bidding over some relatively trivial matter, she’d sought to punish him, using Strike as her preferred method of torture.

The tactic would have failed spectacularly on any other occasion, but it had been the anniversary of Leda’s death and Strike, catastrophically drunk, vulnerable and alone, had got as far as taking her back to his flat in Denmark Street before realising his mistake. He’d told her to leave before passing out, upon which she had tipped off several members of the press to her whereabouts, disrobed and settled down to sleep, knowing that her mission had been a resounding success, with or without any further interaction with her former lover.

It had been Robin who had discovered them on Monday morning, sprawled across his bed half-naked, after he’d failed to wake in time for his first appointment. She had vehemently insisted that his personal life was none of her business, but he could sense her hurt and disappointment. Her feelings about the unwelcome press attention the situation had brought the agency she was more upfront about, and he couldn’t blame her. He was more than angry enough with himself for them both.

By the time the dust had begun to settle, Vanessa had persuaded Robin along to a speed dating evening where she’d met Aidan, a graphic designer. The relationship had lasted just a few months, during which time Strike had called upon every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep his feelings hidden, painfully aware that he had absolutely no right to inflict them on her. It had taken months for the damage to both their friendship and their working relationship to fully heal.

Since then they’d moved office, both he and Robin had moved into new flats and the business had expanded further. Barclay and Hutchins were both on the payroll full-time and they’d taken on two further freelance investigators. With so much to keep them occupied, it had only been as autumn had approached that either of them had had time to notice that their relationship had reverted to its old easy, relaxed state and as Robin’s thirtieth birthday grew nearer, Strike had decided he could no longer suppress his feelings.

He’d bought her what he hoped was a perfect gift, planned his words meticulously and on the night of her birthday party everything had fallen into place. Then just at the last minute, that _twat_ had turned up and the whole thing had been shot to shit.

He glanced towards the kitchen where a third bottle of beer sat on the windowsill, and reluctantly decided against it. He knew nothing of what was in store for him the following day, beyond strict instructions to meet Robin, Nick and Ilsa in Covent Garden at 10am the following morning. Fondness spread warm in his chest as he thought of his business partner and his best friend. He’d overheard many a hushed conversation between them over the preceding weeks as they made their plans for his birthday, and whilst Robin was unlikely to admonish him for a late arrival, Ilsa would have his guts for garters if he didn’t follow her explicit instructions.

With a loud sigh, he reached for his crutches and headed towards his bedroom, where eight hours blissful respite from his whirring thoughts awaited.

***

Robin ended the call to Ilsa finalising plans for the following day, stretched out on her dark grey sofa and took a long, well-deserved mouthful of white wine. Four and half months after moving in to her tiny flat, she still couldn’t help but grin as she looked around her space. _Her space – all hers_. She had been determined to be in a home of her own before she turned thirty, and thanks to the success of the agency, due in no small part to her own hard work, she had managed it with a few months to spare. She was renting, of course, but on a long lease with a great landlord who had been happy to let her put her own stamp on the place.

As she scanned the room, she caught sight of the clean ashtray tucked at the back of the bookshelf, bought expressly for Strike’s rare visits, and her thoughts turned immediately to her friend and business partner. She huffed and dropped her head back on a large shaggy cushion, reluctantly admitting to herself that her thoughts were rarely anywhere else these days.

Robin had been blindsided when she’d found Strike with Charlotte the previous summer. They’d been for drinks the previous Friday and after spending the weekend replaying every look, touch and word they’d shared that evening, she’d arrived at work with thoughts of telling Strike how she really felt about him. It wasn’t even his almost sleeping with Charlotte that upset her most. It was the fact that despite everything they’d been through together he hadn’t called her when he’d been hurting over his mother’s death. She knew better than to raise the subject herself but was genuinely shocked that he had hadn’t called her. That after all the confidences they’d shared in the past, all the times they’d supported each other, he’d made a conscious decision to shut her out.

The business continued to flourish despite, or perhaps because of the media attention that followed ‘Charlotte-gate’ and Robin could do nothing but maintain an aura of professional froideur, whilst allowing Vanessa to encourage a foray into the world of speed-dating. She’d been avoiding curry night with the Herberts, instead seeing Ilsa on her own for coffee and cinema dates, and at first she’d gone along only as an alternative to moping alone in her room of a Friday evening. Then she’d met Aidan. He was pleasant looking, fun and kind, but after a few months he began dropping hints at wanting a greater commitment from her. She’d agreed, somewhat warily, to an overnight stay with his family in Sussex over the festive season, and spent the entire time feeling claustrophobic and tense. On their return she’d admitted to him that she just wasn’t ready for a serious relationship, removed the few personal items she’d left at his place, and thrown herself into her work and finding a flat of her own.

The expansion of the business and moving office over the following months had forced her and Strike back into one another’s orbit, and their relationship had largely returned to its former state, but there was an underlying tension still there. Deep down she knew that her feelings for him had never really changed.  
  
Robin toyed with the pair of pendants on a delicate chain around her neck, recalling Ilsa’s reaction when she’d told her it had been her birthday present from Strike, brought back from a little Cornish jeweller after a recent visit to Ted and Joan.

Ilsa’s eyes had widened at the name of the shop, her eyebrows raised.

“What?” Robin had asked, exasperated, “What’s that look for?”

“I know that shop,” grinned Ilsa, “…and I can tell you that is not some off-the-shelf necklace he’s picked up by happy accident. They make traditional West Country designs with their own rose gold manufactured using recycled Cornish copper. I can’t think why they would randomly make a Yorkshire rose pendant unless it had been commissioned…”

Robin looked at her, doubtfully, wondering if the gift really was that significant.

“And that…” Ilsa gently picked up the accompanying spherical bead of shimmering green stone, “…is malachite.” She chuckled softly.

“And?”

“Malachite is often found alongside copper, and it has all sorts of meanings,” she added archly.

Robin gave her friend a look that told her firmly she was only humouring her, but nonetheless added, “Go on then, Mystic Meg.”

“Malachite is a protective stone, often associated with the heart chakra, it encourages loyalty, faithfulness and harmonious energy in all types of partnerships, and is said to help the user deal with past trauma and express suppressed feelings.”

Robin had looked at Ilsa open-mouthed for a few seconds, before regaining her equilibrium and responding with a good-natured, “Oh do sod off!” and heading to the bar for more wine.

It had only been when Strike had taken her aside at her birthday party the following Saturday, that she’d realised there may have been more to the gift after all. They’d stepped outside at the pub where Robin had hired a function room large enough to accommodate her local friends as well as her family and friends from Masham. He’d finished his cigarette, placed his empty pint glass purposefully on the nearby table and just taken her arm to turn her towards him when the sound of a scuffle had erupted from inside, followed by an extremely drunk Matthew falling through the door and out into the beer garden.

Having been scooped up and dragged to quiet corner of the bar by Stephen Ellacott and Eric Wardle, he’d confided in Robin, under the watchful gaze of both men, and at a considerably further distance, Strike himself, that Sarah had left him, taking their six-month old son with her. They’d been having problems since before the boy was born, and after she’d caught him earlier that day, in a fit of nostalgia, looking at photos of him and Robin in happier times, she’d announced that she’d had enough and stormed off to her parents’ home. Having heard on the grapevine from friends of friends where and when Robin would be celebrating her birthday, he had decided, for reasons that totally eluded both of them, that she would be the ideal person in which to confide his woes.

By the time Matthew had drunk sufficient quantities of black coffee to render him sober enough to get a cab home, any hope of resurrecting the moment she and Strike had been on the brink of was well and truly lost.

In the intervening six weeks, nothing more had been said of that night. Sometimes Robin wondered if she’d imagined the evening at the station, the brief moment at her birthday party and the significance of Strike’s gift. Then she’d notice him holding her gaze for a moment too long, or he’d call of an evening or weekend on what sounded suspiciously like a flimsy pretext, and after a brief work-related enquiry they’d spend an hour or more just chatting.

Realising how late it was, she gave a frustrated sigh, drained her glass of wine and set her phone on charge before heading off to bed, hoping that the following day and evening might present an opportunity to finally have a proper conversation with Strike.


	2. Gentle Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike meets Nick, Ilsa, Robin and a couple of surprise visitors for birthday brunch, and they tell him what they have planned for the weekend.
> 
> Aunt Joan puts her foot in it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will fly swift and true straight to you, like an arrow  
> Just to be where you lie  
> Meet my quest, do my shambling best to be near you
> 
> Gentle storm  
> Rage my way  
> Fall in love with me  
> Fall in love with me  
> Fall in love with me  
> Everyday
> 
> Gentle Storm - Elbow

**Saturday 22nd November**

**Brunch**

The following morning dawned bright, clear and very cold. Strike was grateful that they weren’t meeting too early as it meant the frost had cleared by the time he left home, making the pavements less treacherous. As instructed, he headed for the tube and their agreed meeting point of Covent Garden underground station.  
Nick, Ilsa and Robin greeted him warmly on arrival, then Ilsa pulled something from her pocket.

“Put this on,” she instructed him.

It was a flight mask, intended to serve as a blindfold. He looked at her with raised eyebrows.

“Ilsa, I appreciate the effort you’ve gone to, but no fucking way. A missing leg is enough of a hindrance…”

Ilsa pouted. “Oh, don’t spoil my fun Corm, it won’t be the same if you can see where we’re going. Pleeeease?”

“No chance,” he replied firmly, although he was grinning affectionately at her.

“Cormoran Strike,” interrupted Robin, taking the mask from Ilsa “You’ve swerved all responsibility for planning your birthday celebrations, the least you can do is do as you’re told.”

Her expression was determined, her voice firm. Strike felt himself go ever so slightly weak at the knees despite his reservations. She was a force of nature, his Robin.

_Not mine. Not yet..._

“Besides, it’s only a couple of minutes’ walk and you’ll have me and Ilsa to guide you. You trust us, don’t you?” It sounded like she was daring him to contradict her.

“Fuck’s sake, bloody women,” he grumbled as he bent his head and allowed her to slip the mask into place, missing her triumphant wink at Ilsa as she slipped her arm through his. Ilsa took his other arm and they headed off with Nick leading the way.

A few minutes later, Strike felt a wave of warmth envelop him as they entered a building. The scent of food and strong coffee hit him a moment later, making his stomach growl, and he made to lift the blindfold, only to be thwarted by Ilsa grabbing his hand and manoeuvring him carefully through the tables until she stopped abruptly.

“Ok you can take it off now.”

Strike removed the mask, to see the grinning faces of Uncle Ted and Aunt Joan opposite him. He beamed with pleasure as he hugged them both warmly and took in in the opulent surroundings of The Ivy Marketplace Grill.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were away this weekend?”

“We are,” laughed Ted, “We’re here you daft ha’peth.”

Greetings exchanged, the group sat down and perused the brunch menu, and Strike, who had been more than a little ambivalent about celebrating his birthday at all, found himself smiling with pleasure. Aside from a flying visit to St Mawes at the end of September, he'd not seen Ted and Joan since the previous Christmas, and back then he hadn’t been at his best. Although Robin had headed home to Masham alone for a few days, she was seeing Aidan at the time and his imagination had run riot with how she might be spending the rest of the holiday. He’d managed to convince Joan he was overtired after a busy few months at work, but Ted had seen through him within a couple of days and frog-marched him to the Victory for a pint or three and a ‘bloody good talking to’.

Ted didn’t like to see his nephew hurting, but he was not one to sugar coat things. He had told Cormoran in no uncertain terms that all he could do was own his mistake and be patient. He had also gently pointed out that reining in the drinking to ensure he made no further ‘errors of judgement’ might be a sensible move.

It was Ted’s guidance that had seen him start the new year with a gym membership, wearing himself out with swimming, weights and boxing training, where he’d previously have drunk himself into a stupor. He had never mentioned to Robin how he was spending his spare time, but he knew she’d noticed. She’d not mentioned the change to his physique but had commented more than once on how much easier he was getting around on the rare occasions they worked together. He’d also been aware of her shooting a brief, appraising look his way as he’d hung his coat up at the restaurant and it had bolstered his mood further, but not enough to prevent him ordering a full English on his birthday!

They all tucked in enthusiastically once their food arrived, conversation flowing. Aunt Joan swallowed a mouthful of ham and cheese omelette and turned to Robin.

“So, my love, are you courting anyone at the moment?”

Taken aback, Robin narrowly avoided choking on her Eggs Royale.

“No, Joan, I’m footloose and fancy free,” she smiled, as Ilsa shot a surreptitious eye roll in her direction, “Moved into a new flat a few months ago and, um, yeah, it’s nice to have my own space.”

“Well, I’m sure a lovely girl like you will have no trouble finding a man when you want one…isn’t that right Cormoran?”

Robin looked mortified, Ilsa’s jaw dropped. Engrossed in conversation with Ted, Strike just about heard his name at the tail end of the question.

“Sorry Joan, what was that?” he replied, through a mouthful of Cumberland sausage.

“I said your Robin will have no trouble finding herself a new man when the time comes.”

Strike stopped chewing and swallowed hard, concentrating hard on his plate so as to avoid making eye contact with anyone.

“Um…yeah, well…I s’pose…”

“For heaven’s sake Joan, stop it with your pussivanting…we’re here to celebrate our Cormoran’s birthday not discuss Robin’s love life,” Ted admonished his wife.

“Right,” interjected Ilsa, determined to move the conversation into safer territory as swiftly as possible. “Time we gave Corm his birthday present.”

She rummaged in her bag, pulled out a large scarlet envelope tied with white ribbon and handed it over the table to Strike.

“Everyone’s chipped in. We thought now the business is going well and you’ve got some more hands on deck, you can afford a few Saturday afternoons off.”

Strike frowned and smiled at the same time as he tore open the envelope. Inside was an Arsenal season ticket.

“This is…great…really great,” he said beaming, “I’ll look forward to using that next weekend. Thank you.” He knew there were carefully laid plans for the rest of the day and was only a tiny bit disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to put it to use immediately.

“What do you mean next week?” Robin was grinning at him across the table, “You’re going today – that’s what’s planned for this afternoon.”

“And…” added Nick, “We’re all coming with you, well, Robin, Ils and Joan have got 'better things to do' apparently, but me, Ted, Shanker, Sam, Andy, Eric, Rich, Dave, Graham and Al are joining you. Just as well they’re playing Spurs or you’d have been buggered,” he joked.

“Dave and Graham have come for the weekend? And Al…as in, my brother, Al?” Strike struggled to imagine his glamourous younger half-sibling getting stuck into a pie and pint at a freezing football stadium.

“Yup, so we’d better get a move on, ‘cos we’re meeting them in the pub first.”

***

Having paid the bill and headed out into the chilly sunshine, Strike, Ted and Nick returned to the tube station for the trip to the Emirates Station, whilst Robin, Ilsa and Joan made their way to pick up balloons and Strike’s birthday cake and deliver them to the pub for the evening. Afterwards, they mooched around the shops for a while before stopping for coffee and cake prior to heading back to their respective homes.  
  
Having settled at their table, Joan immediately took herself off to ladies, and Ilsa heaved an audible sigh of relief.  
  
“Thank God for that! I love her dearly but…”  
  
“…diplomacy isn’t her strong point is it?” laughed Robin.  
  
“It certainly isn’t. Did you see Corm’s face…he looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him.”  
  
Robin flushed, remembering vividly how awkward Joan’s comment was for both of them. Then she recalled something else and turned to Ilsa with a quizzical expression. “What’s pussivanting? It sounds vaguely rude.”  
  
Ilsa snorted loudly. “Nah, it’s a Cornish word…means meddling or interfering.”  
  
“Ahhh.”  
  
“Anyway, more importantly. What happened about getting the…y’know…sorted?” Ilsa raised her eyebrows meaningfully, watching out of the corner of her eye as Joan made her way slowly back to the table through the increasingly busy café.  
  
“Yeah, it’s all done. It’s a fairly major modification, but it looks good.”  
  
“I can’t wait to see it,” said Ilsa gleefully, “…and Corm’s face.”  
  
“I’m not sure it’s that big a deal,” replied Robin, fiddling self-consciously with her necklace. “Hi Joan, this one’s yours.”  
  
Robin passed a latte and a Bakewell tart over to the older woman and turned the conversation swiftly to other matters, as much to distract herself as for Joan’s benefit. The evening seemed a lifetime away.


	3. Dear Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An afternoon at the footy...a surprise from Al, and a heart to heart with Uncle Ted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are with me today  
> You are here in my head  
> In my heart
> 
> Dear friends  
> You are angels and drunks  
> You are Maji
> 
> Old friends  
> You stuck a pin in the map I was in  
> And you are the stars I navigate home by
> 
> Dear Friends - Elbow

Strike, Nick and Ted entered the Victoria Tavern, a short walk from the Emirates Stadium. Strike hadn’t been to a game for a few years and had never been to this particular pub before. He immediately noticed that whilst they didn’t serve Doom Bar, they did serve a different range of Cornish ales.

“Bloody well played mate,” he said, nodding towards the bar and giving Nick an appreciative clap on the back. “You been here before then?”

“Nope,” replied Nick cheerily, “We normally go to the Tollington. Robin suggested this place.”

Strike felt something like butterflies fluttering in his chest. She must have known, and if she suggested it because she knew, that must mean…

_Stop it…she’s just a very thoughtful person. Bloke’s afternoon at the footy. Get a grip._

Much good-natured mickey taking ensued as he greeted his friends, thanking Dave ‘Chum’ Polworth and Graham Hardacre especially for making their respective journeys from Bristol and Scotland.

“You’re kidding me, right?” joked Hardacre, “The wife’ll leap at any opportunity to get out of ‘the arse end of the Highlands’ as she likes to call it. I’m on a promise tonight – well worth it, mate. How about you? Are we going to be meeting anyone interesting this evening?” he winked.

Strike snorted. “Well yes, but not like that. You’ll finally meet Robin, my partner – business partner, at last.”

Graham surveyed his former colleague suspiciously.

“Still just a business partner, eh?” he said sympathetically. He and Strike didn’t speak a great deal about their personal lives, but he knew a case of mentionitis when he heard one, and he’d heard Robin’s name often enough to draw his own conclusions.

“It’s 2014, mate. Men and women can work together and be friends without…that, y’know.”

“’Specially when this one keeps banjaxing his chances,” interrupted Shanker, thrusting a pint into his friend’s hand, “Anyway, that’s enough of that soppy bollocks, get that down ya.”

They headed to the back of the pub, where Al Rokeby, Strike’s half-brother was waiting for them.

“Bro…happy birthday!” he greeted Strike in his transatlantic drawl.

“Alright Al, good to see you.” Strike embraced him, somewhat awkwardly despite the fact they’d been friends for several years now. Al was ten years his junior, a product of Strike’s father’s third marriage and the only one of his paternal siblings he was in regular contact with, although over the previous couple of years he’d met a couple of other half-siblings. They’d got on well enough at the time, but the lack of shared history and vastly differing lifestyles had prevented any deeper bonds from developing.

They all sat and enjoyed their beers and banter, Dave and Graham had a hilarious game of indoor crazy golf, and Shanker thrashed Al at table football.  
Soon it was time to drink up and head to the stadium, and they checked their tickets to see which entrance they needed to use.

“Actually,” announced Al, “I hope you guys don’t mind, but I mentioned to Gabi – our sister…” he ignored the slight twitch of Strike’s eyebrow, “…what we were doing today. She works in sports PR and she managed to pull some strings, so…we've got VIP entry and an executive box, with complimentary half time drinks and snacks.”

There was a moment’s silence. Everyone around the table was aware of Strike’s history with the Rokeby side of his family, and as such they were torn between appreciation for Al’s efforts and concern over how Strike, who didn’t subscribe to their decadent lifestyle, would react.

He glanced momentarily at Ted before turning back to Al and raising his glass.

“Cheers Al, appreciate it,” he replied warmly, before gulping back the last dregs of his beer. “Right, let’s make a move and make the most of this unexpected upgrade then shall we?”

As the men walked the short distance to the stadium, Strike hung back a little, falling into step with Ted at the back of the group. He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and slowly exhaled.

“You did the right thing back there, Corm. I know all that stuff makes you uncomfortable, but it seems to me Al’s a good lad. I’m sure his motives are genuine.”

“Yeah, I know. I was more worried about what you thought to be honest. You brought me up when Mum couldn’t, you and Joan made so many sacrifices for me and Lucy when it should have been that fucker – sorry, Rokeby stepping up to the plate...”

“And it was our pleasure and our privilege to do so. You’re a good man Cormoran. I couldn’t be prouder of you if you were my own son, and I know Joanie feels the same. Your mum would too if…well…” he took a steadying breath. “If the other half of your family wants to make up for lost time now, and if you want to get to know them better, we couldn’t be happier for you. It’s never too late Cormoran, and you can never surround yourself with too many people who care about you,” he paused for a moment, “Speaking of which…”

Strike looked at Ted, knowing instinctively where the conversation was heading, and for the first time in years, Ted was reminded of the little boy he’d helped raise. He’d seen that look when Joan had told him in no uncertain terms that the grass snake he’d found in the woods was not about to become a family pet. He’d seen it when they’d had to tell him that they didn’t know if Leda would be home for Christmas. He’d seen him plaster a smile over the same look to comfort his little sister when her eighth birthday had been forgotten. Leda had made it up to her the following weekend with a lavish trip to local funfair where Lucy had gone on every ride and been allowed to eat so much candy floss and ice-cream she’d been sick.

“How are things between you and Robin? I presume you didn’t get a chance to talk to her on her birthday?” He saw the flicker of surprise cross Strike’s face.

“C’mon lad, I was a Redcap too don’t forget. No-one commissions a necklace like that and makes a round trip in excess of five-hundred miles to pick it up just for a business partner.”

“Nope,” Strike admitted. “And no I didn't. Her ex-husband rocked up drunk – kind of ruined the moment.”

“She’s not…”

“God no! That’s one thing at least. She’s not back with that twat.”

“And she said she’s not seeing anyone so…”

“Who’s pussivanting now?” grumbled Strike affectionately.

“We just want to see you happy, Cormoran. For what it’s worth, knowing the effort that went in to planning this weekend – and I know it was Ilsa’s doing too – I think Robin feels the same way about you. It’s not going to happen unless one of you makes it happen.”

“Yeah, I know.” He had that look back on his face again.

“Do you know, I can still remember the night I got together with your Auntie Joan?” Ted said, smiling fondly. “20th of July 1969 it was. I’d met Joanie a few times by then, but every time something wasn’t quite right. I was courting someone else, then she was. The previous time I’d been home on leave I’d arranged to meet her but then got called back early. We’d written to each other a bit but the letters tailed off after a while. It wasn’t easy to get post to or from where I was stationed at the time.”

Strike chuckled. “I always kind of assumed you two got together by osmosis.”

“You must be bloody joking!” laughed Ted. “Anyway, I headed down to the Victory – they’d got a TV set up so everyone could watch the moon landings over a beer, and I knew Joan was going. I had this feeling that if I didn’t tell her how I felt that night I never would…” he paused, “…and I was scared stiff.”

Both men had stopped now, and Ted looked his nephew in the eye as he spoke. “You’re only terrified because this means so much to you – it’s meant to feel like that. That’s how you know it’s real.”

“I’m not…”

They were interrupted by the sound of Nick’s voice carrying up the street, impatient.

“Come on you two, we’ve a footy match to watch. And God knows your lot are going to need all the support they can get,” he joked. Like Eric Wardle, London born and bred Nick was an avid Spurs fan.

“Just think on what I’ve said Corm, ok?” said Ted, as they began walking again.

Strike wasn’t sure he’d be doing much else.

***

It turned out Strike was wrong. As if fate knew it was his birthday, the match was one of the best he’d seen in years – a combination of excellent football on both sides and a win for Arsenal. There was much good-natured barracking of the Spurs fans amongst the group as they made their the way back to the tube and headed off in their various directions to prepare for the evening’s festivities.


	4. Mirrorball - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike's birthday party...surprises, food, dancing and cake!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was looking for someone to complete me  
> Not anymore, dear  
> Everything has changed
> 
> And we made the moon our mirrorball  
> The streets, an empty stage  
> The city sirens violins  
> Everything has changed
> 
> So lift off love  
> Lift off love
> 
> Mirrorball - Elbow

**The Birthday Party**

By 7.30pm, all of Strike’s friends and family had gathered at The White Horse, including Lucy and Greg and Vanessa Ekwensi with her fiancé Oliver. April Wardle, the appropriately named Helly Anstis (Strike had been hoping she might have to stay home with the kids), Shanker’s long-term girlfriend Alyssa, Lindsey Barclay, Penny Polworth and Rachel Hardacre had all arrived and introductions had been made. Ilsa had purposely asked everyone to get there a bit early so they were in situ before Strike turned up.

Robin had been her usual friendly, helpful self but Ilsa had noticed she was distracted, and when Lucy finally stopped grilling the pair of them and slipped off speak to Ted and Joan, she whispered to Robin, “You won’t make him arrive any sooner by checking the door every two minutes.”

Robin blushed, “Am I that obvious?”

“Only to me sweetheart,” she gave her an affectionate hug. “Look, it’s his birthday party – it’s not like he won’t turn up. To be honest I’m more worried about him breaking his jaw when he sees you and it hits the floor,” she joked, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Oh, pack it in,” laughed Robin, burying her head in her wine glass again.

* * *

Al was unable to make the birthday party. He had a longstanding prior engagement but had told Strike he would love to take him out for a belated birthday lunch some time and asked him to consider including some of their other siblings in the arrangement. His own full brother Ed, older half sisters Gabi and Dani were keen to meet up again, and their younger half-sister, Pru was curious to meet their shared sibling. Maimie, the eldest of Rokeby’s children, to whose mother he had been married when he fathered Strike, still refused to engage with any discussion on the subject.

Deep down Strike himself was somewhat reluctant. It was one thing going out with Al, but a dinner date with all four of them seemed like a recipe for feeling like an exhibit in a circus freak show. But as he recalled Ted’s words earlier that day he was minded to suggest, somewhat against his better judgement, that Al speak to the rest of the siblings and email him a few possible dates.

His mind skipped to Robin as he made his way down Regent Street, already bedecked with twinkling Christmas lights. He wondered if she might consider accompanying him to lunch with his siblings, as a friend. Or maybe something more, if only he could pluck up the courage to tell her how he felt before then. Assuming she didn’t throw any overtures back in his face. No, she wouldn’t, he knew that, she was too kind. But that didn’t mean she’d want him. He might be in better shape these days, but he was still ten years her senior and he’d let her down. Badly.

He shook his head to try and clear his thoughts as he turned in Newburgh Street and approached the pub, it’s cream and black exterior lit with lanterns on the outside and warm white fairy lights around the windows. He and Robin had joked about the irony of celebrating his birthday at The White Horse after the Chiswell case, but it was a great location with function room and an extensive menu specialising in pies. Suddenly his stomach rumbled, and with the thought of dinner improving his mood dramatically, he opened the door ready to enjoy his birthday eve.

The bar staff knew to expect Strike and after taking his coat, they directed him upstairs to the Tank Room which they’d booked for the evening. He wasn’t one for fuss but found himself overwhelmed at the sight of everyone gathered around the bar waiting for him. Then he saw Robin, and everyone else in the room seemed to disappear.

She had not worn the green dress since the Paralympic reception, even on the handful of occasions they’d had to attend formal events together whilst working a case. She’d never mentioned why, and he’d never asked but he knew what had happened. Ilsa had let slip that it had been badly torn by Matthew in a fit of jealous rage the first and last time Robin had worn it. It was yet another reason for his intense dislike of Robin’s former husband, not for his own sake or because of the small fortune it had cost at a time when he could ill afford it, but because he had seen the look on Robin’s face when the green silk had rippled through her hands as she’d pulled it out of the box and knew what it had meant to her.

Matt Cunliffe, however, was the furthest thing from his mind right now.

Robin was standing in front of him, eyes warm, smile beaming as she raised her glass. The green silk flowed sinuously over her body, but now it stopped just on the knee, her pale, slim legs tapering down to rose gold strappy heels revealing toenails painted deep pink. Her hair was softly curled, the sides caught up the same way as they’d been at her wedding. She was wearing her birthday necklace, complimented by matching teardrop shaped malachite earrings.

“Well that clearly had the desired effect!” whispered Ilsa from behind her left shoulder, “And he’s certainly made quite the effort…methinks he might be trying to impress you too,” she grinned.

 _It’s worked_ , thought Robin, covertly watching him as he wove through the gathering, greeting those friends who he hadn’t already seen during the day. He was wearing smart, black trousers with well-polished brogues and a fitted deep burgundy shirt which showed off his newly honed upper body. The top couple of buttons were undone, exposing a tuft of soft, dark chest hair and Robin silently thanked God that he hadn’t gone for the rolled-up sleeves look, otherwise she feared she may have started hyperventilating. She was already aware of her heart beating more rapidly as he made his way over to her and she desperately tried to convince herself it was the glass of wine on an empty stomach that was causing it.

He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her in for a kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you so much for all this. I really didn’t fancy celebrating being an even older fart…” he grinned, “…but this is bloody marvellous.” He paused for a moment, his hand still lightly on her waist as he took a step back to look her over appreciatively, “And you look amazing…”

“Ilsa told you what happened, didn’t she?” said Robin quietly.

“Yeah, she did. It looks great that length though.”

“They had to replace the back panel – it was the only way to salvage it.”

“I’m glad they did,” he said, softly, and for a moment they were both lost in their thoughts, Strike back on the stairs in Vashti, feathers well and truly ruffled by his ‘temporary solution’, Robin remembering his cheeky ‘nice dress’ comment on the only other occasion he’d seen her it.

“Robin, I…”

“Right everyone,” Nick’s voice cut through the noise in the room, “Starters are ready if you’d like to take your seats ladies and gents.”

Strike gave a rueful smile and gestured in front on him.

“After you, Ellacott.”

Everyone sat around one long table and enjoyed a selection of sharing platters before the arrival of their main courses.

Conversation flowed and the guests seemed to be getting on. Sam Barclay’s wife, Lindsey, a petite woman in her early thirties with sparkling dark eyes and a brunette pixie cut was laughing uproariously at a stream of somewhat blue jokes being shared by April Wardle, who looked striking as ever and reminiscent of a pop-art Marilyn Monroe in a scarlet halter neck dress, her purple hair cut in a shorter bob than usual and coiffed into a series of rolling curls. Vanessa, resplendent in gold sequins was joining in, whist her boyfriend Oliver chatted to Sam and Andy, and Robin and Eric talked about a recent murder case in her home county of Yorkshire that had made national headlines.

Joan was enjoying catching up with Lucy and Ilsa, whilst Greg and Helly Anstis talked property and investments. Uncle Ted was sat next to Alyssa and had taken quite a shine to Shanker’s girlfriend, much to his and Strike’s amusement. Richard, Graham and Dave were sharing anecdotes from their long history of friendship with Strike whilst their wives rolled their eyes and made small talk.

 _It was_ , thought Strike, _a perfect evening…almost._

Puddings arrived and were devoured, glasses were topped up and the chatter continued. Then suddenly Strike noticed that several members of the party were missing, including Robin. Just as he was about to ask Lucy if she’d seen where she’d gone, the lights in the room dimmed, leaving just one end of the space illuminated, and into it stepped Nick, tapping an empty glass with a fork.

“Good evening everyone and thank you all for coming this evening to celebrate our mate Oggy being properly over the hill.”

There was some heckling from the over-forties in the crowd before he continued. Strike squinted in the darkness behind his friend and could just about make out Eric Wardle tinkering with an iPod and speaker dock.

“Now I’m sure you’ll agree that no party is complete without music and entertainment. You’ve all heard of ‘Charlie’s Angels’, so without further ado, please put your hands together and welcome the newest girl group in London, ‘Strike’s Seraphs’!”

Strike’s eyebrows were almost in his hairline as the staccato beat of the beginning of ‘All That Jazz’ filled the room and Ilsa, Robin and Vanessa, led by an irrepressible April Wardle slinked onto the makeshift stage area and began to perform a simple but perfectly choreographed burlesque routine.

Strike knew that Vanessa and Robin attended April’s weekly dance class but had never allowed himself to give the matter any serious thought. Now, as he watched his partner pout and shimmy across the ‘stage’, giving the odd flash of thigh as she twirled and kicked through the routine, he had a feeling it would very, very hard to expunge this particular image from his mind’s eye. He focussed on Ilsa for a few seconds to give himself some respite from his increasingly wayward imagination, then flicked a glance at his Aunt Joan, who he always thought of as a bit straight-laced. She had a huge smile on her face and appeared to know all lyrics, whilst Ted was watching her affectionately as she sang along. Strike smiled and turned his attention back to Robin as the last few bars of music segued into Marilyn Monroe's sexy version of Happy Birthday, and the four women gathered around the microphone to sing.

They reached the end of the song and returned to the table, encouraging everyone to join in with chorus of the more typical version of the song. As they did so, Lucy, who had sloped off unnoticed a minute earlier, returned to the table with a cake, shaped and decorated to resemble a giant bottle of Doom Bar and topped with a ‘40’ shaped candle.

“Happy birthday Stick,” she said, “Don’t forget to make a wish.”

He grinned at her briefly before leaning forward and extinguishing the candles with a loud huff, his eyes locked with Robin’s across the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This where it get's tricky. I've been trying to post this in 'real time'...but I haven't written the next chapter yet.
> 
> Bear with...! 😁


	5. Mirrorball - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shanker has some news, Lucy breaks down and Robin makes a decision.

**Later that evening...**  
  
A couple of hours later, Robin and Ilsa had finally managed to find a quiet corner.

“It’s hopeless, Ils,” sighed Robin, “There’s no way we’re going to be able to have a conversation this evening.”

She watched wistfully as Strike joked with Eric, Sam and Andy, his deep laugh carrying across the room despite the chatter and music.

“I’m glad he’s having such a good time though,” she smiled, “It was silly to think tonight would be a good opportunity to talk to him about…you know. So many people have come such a long way.”

“C’mon now,” said Ilsa, slurring slightly now that she was on her fifth glass of wine, “Don’t be so def… defestiest…negative. Faint heart never won fair lady…oh bollocks you know what I mean.”

Robin chuckled.

“I’m not sure you do,” she steered her in the direction of a nearby table where Nick was chatting to Ted and Graham Hardacre. “I think you should keep Uncle Ted and your lovely husband company for a bit…I’m off to the ladies.”

* * *

Strike made his way over to the bar where Shanker was ordering a round.

“I’ll get these, mate,” he said, “What are you having?”

“Pint for me, cheers, and a lime and soda for the missus.”

“Lime and soda?” queried Strike, “Never took Alyssa for a lightweight.”

“She not, usually, but y’know…” Shanker was beaming, his eyes bright. Strike had never seen him look so happy.

“Y’know?” and then the penny dropped, “Seriously? Alyssa’s pregnant.”

“Shhh, s’early days, we ain’t making it public knowledge yet but yeah, I’m gonna be a Dad. Who’d have fuckin’ thought it eh?”

“Bloody hell, Shanker,” Strike was almost speechless, “Well, congratulations. That’s quite some news.”

Shanker just grinned and clinked his glass with Strike’s.  
  


* * *

Robin was washing her hands when Lucy appeared in the ladies, handbag at the ready. She slid into the space next to Robin and rummaged thoroughly, extracting various items of makeup, a hairbrush and a small perfume atomiser and lining them up on the counter.

She smiled warmly at Robin in the mirror.

“Tonight’s been fabulous Robin, I’m so grateful to you and Ilsa for doing the organising. What with work and the boys and all their school activities and clubs…”

“It’s been our pleasure Lucy, I’m just glad you don’t feel we’ve stepped on your toes.”

“Oh, not at all,” she replied, “Besides, if I’d tried to organise anything I’d have probably got it wrong. I love Stick to bits and I know he does me, but we’re chalk and cheese. I’m well aware I drive him up the wall a lot of the time.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Robin said, knowing she was lying but hoping to sound reassuring.

“Oh, it is,” retorted Lucy with a little ripple of laugher. “You know my brother better than anyone these days.”

Robin wasn’t sure how to reply, so she concentrated on reapplying her own lipstick and combing carefully through her curls with her fingers so as not to flatten them.

“He thinks the world of you, you know,” Lucy’s voice was little more than a whisper.

Robin paused, then smiled back at Lucy’s reflection.

“He’s a lovely man,” she agreed, “I couldn’t wish for a better friend and business partner.”

Robin jumped slightly as Lucy reached out and took her hand, pulling her round so they were face to face rather than talking to one another’s mirror image.

“That’s not what I mean and I think you know it,” Lucy voice was wobbly, her expression pleading. “He was so unhappy for so long, with and without…her.” She almost spat the last word. “He’s been like a different person since he met you, even more…I’m sorry this isn’t really appropriate…even more since you left Matthew. And last year I really thought you two were going to finally make a go of it.”

Robin was looking at her, absolutely gobsmacked. She knew Lucy had form for trying to interfere in Strike’s personal life but she had never anticipated being on the receiving end of one of her onslaughts.

“Look, Robin. We all love you and I know he fucked up monumentally last year, but please, please tell me there’s still a chance? We just so badly want him to be happy.”

Robin was both taken aback, and somewhat annoyed by Lucy’s speech. It was hardly fair to hand her responsibility for Strike's happiness. She was taking a moment to consider her response when she noticed Lucy suddenly register something. Her face changed and the colour drained from her cheeks.

“Are you OK?”

Lucy sniffed and blinked, but her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

“I’m fine…it’s just this song.”

Robin tilted her head on one side. ‘Fast Car’ by Tracy Chapman was playing in the bar.

“Sit down,” she led Lucy to a seat in the corner.

“It reminds me of when we were with Mum at that bloody awful place in Norfolk,” she croaked, still fighting back tears. “We were living there when it came out the first time. I was eight and Stick was ten. When things were really bad we’d sing it together and dream we really could get a fast car and run away…”

“Oh Lucy,” Robin squeezed onto the seat next to her and pulled her into a hug.

“I’m sorry I had a go at you about Stick, I know it’s none of my business. I just want the best for him.”

“I know Lucy, I’ve got brothers too. And I do think the world of yours, but beyond that…” she sighed.

“I know, whatever will be will be,” Lucy replied, suddenly brisk. “We’d better get back out there otherwise Greg will think something’s up.”

As she watched Lucy leave the room, she was reminded by her manner and her comment about Greg of how she’d felt with Matthew, always worrying about what he was thinking, overanalysing how he would react to everything, and she realised that Strike had never made her feel like that.

Even after the debacle of last summer, he had never wavered in his belief in her, in his professionalism, his kindness. He’d remained steadfast and supportive even as she was spitting feathers about press intrusion; friendly and respectful when she was dating Aidan (and she’d known he’d been hurting, even though he’d not said a word), and then there was the necklace and the way he’d looked at her in the green dress, and again as he blew out his candles and made a wish.  
Suddenly determined, she checked her reflection in the mirror a final time, spritzed on some perfume and made her way unwaveringly back into the bar.

* * *

She scanned the room as she entered, homing in on her target and approaching him unflinchingly.

“Sorry,” she apologised to the woman he was talking to, “Just need to borrow him for a minute,” and she tugged his arm.

Shanker’s eyes were wide with surprise.

“You alright Rob?”

“I’m fine,” she replied, quickly and quietly, “But I need a favour. I need to talk to Cormoran…alone. Can you get him outside for a cigarette, then claim you’ve forgotten yours, pop back in and give me the signal?”

“’Course I can love,” he smirked, “So, it’s finally on then is it?”

“Mind your own business, you cheeky bugger,” she grinned back, “If it is, I promise you’ll be the first to know. For now I’m relying on your discretion…and ability to lie through your teeth!”

She watched, smiling as he sauntered off in Strike’s direction and continued to mingle and chat until she saw them heading downstairs. Giving them enough time to reach the front door, she followed and waited for Shanker’s return.

True to his word, within a minute he was back inside. He gave her an encouraging wink as she slipped through the busy pub and out to where Strike was sat, alone due to the chilly November temperatures, puffing contemplatively on a cigarette. He was facing the opposite direction and jumped slightly when she pulled out a wrought iron chair and sat down next to him, his expression becoming welcoming when he saw who it was.

“It’s too bloody cold for you to be out here,” he admonished, “Unless you’ve taken up smoking…which you shouldn’t, filthy habit,” he grinned sheepishly.

“I was looking for you,” she said, “I’ve been trying to talk to you all evening, but you’re a very popular man.”

“Well, I am the birthday boy,” he joked, glancing at his watch. It was ten to midnight, the party was almost over, “Or at least, I’m nearly the birthday boy.”

Robin looked at him thoughtfully.

“So, in about ten minutes, you could find out if your birthday wish is going to come true?”

He looked away from her and exhaled and long, slow plume of smoke into the cold night air. The sound of traffic still busy on Regent’s Street and Oxford Street was almost melodious as it filtered down the narrow side streets, and the full moon glowed, unfeasibly large, overhead.

“I’m not sure I deserve to have my birthday wish come true,” he murmured, soft enough for her not to hear. At least that’s what he thought after an evening’s drinking, the likes of which he hadn’t partaken in for some time.

“Tell you what,” she said, “Why don’t you go and say your goodbyes upstairs, then meet me down here and I’ll shout you a nightcap?”

He looked at her as he got to his feet, not drunk, but slightly hazy.

“I was right,” he said, “You are a very nice person.”

* * *

Five minutes later, Robin was sat on a bar stool with an Arran single malt whisky and a shot of Café Patron in front of her. She’d collected both their coats which were draped over the chair to her left, Strike perched on the one to her right. She raised her tiny glass and touched it to his before taking a sip.

“Everything okay up there?” She already knew it was, she’d called Ilsa whilst he had been saying goodbye to the remaining guests and explained her plan, which her friend was more than happy to facilitate by letting her off the tidying up.

“It’s fine, just Nick and Ils, Eric and April and Ted and Joan left now. Thank you again, for a wonderful birthday.”

“We’ve still got lunch at Lucy and Greg’s tomorrow, it’s not over yet!” she laughed.

“Actually,” he said, glancing at the clock behind the bar which had just turned midnight, “It’s today.”

“So it is,” she replied, smiling softly, “Happy birthday, Cormoran,” and she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, inhaling his familiar comforting scent and relishing the gentle scratch of his stubble against her cool skin.

As she knocked back the last of her drink, her mobile phone buzzed, and she picked it up from the bar and swiped up to look at the message, before sliding down from the stool and picking up her coat.

“Well, that’s my cab,” she told Strike.

He looked at her, and although his expression was neutral, she’d seen the flicker of sadness and disappointment wash over his face in the second or two it had taken him to compose his features.

“You’re going home?” he asked, wondering to himself if they’d called last orders yet. He had a feeling he’d be needing more whisky.

“Yes…” she replied.

And then she was picking up his coat too, looking at him with those mesmerising, swirling blue-grey eyes, one eyebrow slightly raised in question as she spoke.

“You coming?”


	6. Golden Slumbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin and Cormoran finally talk, and...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once there was a way  
> To get back homeward  
> Once there was a way  
> To get back home
> 
> Golden Slumbers – Elbow

“Really?” Strike’s face was a study in both hope and bemusement.

“No, Cormoran…I’m in the habit of inviting men back to my flat by way of a joke,” she replied exasperated, “Let me make this a bit clearer,” she leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “Grab your coat, you’ve pulled.”

She was almost as shocked as he was when the words slipped out. Clearly months of frustration and a large shot of tequila could have that effect on a girl, she mused. But it had had the desired effect and Strike was finally on his feet, shrugging his coat on.

He held the taxi door open for her to get in, then went round the other side to slide into the seat next to her, and soon they were pulling away slowly into the London night. They were both silent for a minute. Robin was looking out of the window, her head turned away from him, but she could feel his gaze on her.

Eventually she turned to face him.

As he watched the passing lights illuminating her face, he realised this was really happening. Everything he’d not allowed himself to fantasise about for longer than he cared to admit, was actually coming true. But he knew deep down that it couldn’t happen like this.

Her hand was resting on the back seat, and he took it in his and with a fleeting glimpse checked the privacy screen was fully shut before he spoke.

“Robin…”

“Cormoran…”

“We need to talk.”

“I know.”

She’d known all along he wouldn’t take things any further without them having the conversation that had been hovering unspoken between them for weeks. Propositioning him the way she had had merely been a means to an end, a way to shock him into actually engaging with the issue of their relationship.

“Now, or when we get back to yours?”

Privacy screen aside, this wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have in the back of a taxi.

“At home,” she confirmed, “Now tell me about your favourite bits from today.”

* * *

They arrived at Robin’s flat twenty-five minutes later and as he entered the hallway behind her and hung his coat up, he reflected on how somewhere so familiar could suddenly become so different in another context. He’d visited numerous times, helped her move in, helped her decorate, yet it was like he was seeing the place for the first time.

“Whisky?” she offered.

“Any chance of a cuppa?” He’d already begun to sober up and very much wanted to stay that way.

Robin smiled and headed to the kitchen whilst he made himself comfortable on the sofa. She returned a few minutes later with two mugs of strong tea, and a plate of buttered toast.

“You really are too good to be true,” he chuckled, reaching for a slice.

“I know you too well,” she replied, “If you were making your own way home you’d be halfway down a kebab by now.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve been going easy on those lately. No point flogging myself at the gym otherwise.”

“So that’s what you’ve been up to. I had noticed a…change, I must admit.” She was blushing in the lamp light, unable to meet his eye as she spoke. It was time, he thought.

“It was Ted’s idea,” he admitted. “I went to stay with them last Christmas and I wasn’t at my best…after everything that happened last year. He suggested – not so gently – that focussing my attentions somewhere other than the pub when I was struggling might be a better idea going forward.”

Robin nodded slowly. “He’s a wise man, your uncle,” she agreed.

“I will never be able to apologise to you enough for that debacle with Charlotte, from a personal or a professional point of view. I honestly don’t know what came over me. Yes, I was grieving and drunk and nothing actually happened in the end, but the fact things went as far as they did…”

“Do you know what hurt the most?” Robin asked, not waiting for him to reply before continuing, “It wasn’t seeing you like that with her, although that was bloody horrible, to be honest. It was the fact you hadn’t called me. After everything we’d been through together, the trust we’d built up, the way things had been between us that Friday. You didn’t call me when you needed someone. It reminded me of the time you tore your hamstring and called Lorelei, except she was your girlfriend then and I was still with Matthew so I knew I had no right to be cross about that.”

“You were jealous of Lorelei?” he asked.

“Not the point,” Robin warned.

“No, of course not. I’m sorry. It was nothing to do with not trusting you. I don’t like the thought of you seeing me…” he paused, even saying the words was a challenge. “I don’t like you seeing me weak or vulnerable. I don’t like you being reminded of the fact that I’m so much older and that I’m broken.”

“Cormoran,” she said softly, setting down her tea and turning bodily to face him on the sofa, “I can honestly say I have never given your age a moment’s thought…well, besides planning today. And you’re not broken, you’re you. You’re the man you are because of everything you’ve been through, and, I like that man…a lot.”

“Uncle Ted said something else,” Strike told her, taking her hand. He wasn’t sure whether it was Robin or him that was trembling. “He said that being scared of your feelings is how you know they’re real and right now, I’m absolutely bloody terrified, because I love you. And for a long time I thought I would never say those words again. I promised myself I wouldn’t unless it was one-hundred percent right, and then you came along, and it was, it is.”

He looked at her and her eyes were filled with tears, but she was smiling  
.  
“So,” he continued, “Can we do this? Us.”

She sniffed and nodded, “Yes…yes please.”

A single tear had managed to escape and Strike brushed it from Robin’s cheek, before kissing softly where it had been. His mouth traced a feather-light path downwards before landing on her lips, the gentle, warm pressure setting her heart racing as she pulled him closer and deepened the kiss, a shock of lust hitting her as he groaned at the feel of her tongue against his.

It was several minutes before they parted, breathless, foreheads still touching.

“Thank you,” he whispered hoarsely, “For making this the best birthday ever.”

She took his hand and pulled him to his feet, her confidence from earlier in the evening making a sudden return.

“We could make it even better,” she suggested, “Stay?”

He nodded and followed her to the bedroom.

* * *

For all the months – years, that he’d had feelings for Robin, Strike had never given into the temptation to let her into his fantasies. Which was not to say that his subconscious hadn’t got the better of him from time to time. He had literally dreamed of removing that green dress and now he had the opportunity he wanted to savour every minute.

His hands glided over the rippling silk as they kissed and kissed, learning every curve of her body whist their tongues, lips and teeth explored. He traced the swirl of her earlobe with his hot tongue before trailing his lips with exquisite care down her long pale throat to plant soft, moist kisses along the neckline of the dress, allowing his tongue to delve just beneath the edge of the fabric and trace the subtle swell of each breast.

He turned her in his arms, lifted her hair and repeated his ministrations across her shoulders and upper back, before his fingertips alighted on the zip.  
He nuzzled her hair away from ear, breathing in the warm, familiar scent of her as he whispered hoarsely, “Sure?”

She nodded and reached an arm round to pull him closer, gasping as his groin made contact with the swell of backside, leaving her in no doubt how much he wanted her. His eyes fluttered closed and he inhaled sharply at the sensation, before returning his attentions to the dress.

Robin couldn’t help but briefly register the difference between this, and the last time she had been unzipped from the same dress. Strike eased the zip down agonisingly slowly, anticipation building as the fabric parted beneath his warm fingertips. When they reached the bottom, he slid them beneath the fabric and stroked up the curve of her spine and over her shoulders, allowing the dress to slip effortlessly to floor in a soft puddle of poison green.

Robin stepped carefully out of the fabric, picked it up and draped it over a chair, feeling Strike’s eyes on her the whole time, taking in her figure in its minimal black lace underwear. Then she pulled him towards the bed, pushing him down to sit on the edge and straddling his lap.

She kissed him, hard and passionate. He’d not expected her to be shy and retiring but he was gratified and ridiculously turned on by the way she was expressing how much she wanted him. Robin’s fingers tangled through his hair, turning his head so she could kiss and suck her way down the stretch of bare neck from behind his ear down to the curve of his collar bone. She unbuttoned his shirt as her lips worked against his skin, pushing the soft, brushed cotton aside as she moved downwards, fingers roving through the dark hair covering his newly-toned chest and stomach.

His hands were warm on her backside pulling her closer, and she responded with a smooth roll of her hips against his very evident arousal, moaning softly as the friction between them hit exactly the right spot and a wave of heat shot through her core.

She raised her head and looked at him, unable to resist a small smile of satisfaction at the fact he already looked fairly wrecked even thought they were still dressed. She’d never been particularly confident with Matthew, and whilst Aidan had been sweet and patient, they hadn’t been together long enough, or had sufficient enough a connection for the sex to be anything more than average. As she had long realised, even before her feelings had gone beyond platonic, everything about her relationship with Strike was different.

“How about you take those off and we get into bed?” she suggested, knowing that the leg would have to come off with the trousers and he’d be more comfortable for it, but not wanting to say as much.

He complied willingly and within minutes they were under the covers, hands and lips everywhere. His fingers were gentle and his mouth warm and skilled as they traced every inch of her body, learning what made her gasp and moan and writhe against his touch. His senses drank in every sound and movement she made, all the while he exercised every last vestige of his self-restraint to draw the experience out for as long as possible. He didn’t dare let Robin touch him for any length of time for fear he he’d lose control of himself completely.

It was only when he heard her whispered, desperate _“Please…”_ that he gave in and allowed her to roll him onto his back, and envelop him in her tight, wet heat.

His hands gripped her hips tightly, relishing the sensation of her warmth, but preventing her from moving just yet. She read his cues and instead leaned forward, pressing herself against his chest and kissing him until he’d regained his composure. Only then did she begin to move, riding him with a slow, gentle pace until he noticed her breath coming shorter, her rhythm faltering. He reached down between them and circled his thumb lightly over her swollen, glistening clit, watching intently for as long as he could while she came apart above him, until the feel of her tightening around his cock, and the sound of his name on her lips brought him to his own shattering climax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's another chapter or two to come, hopefully this evening, 'cos for now, real life calls 🙄


	7. One Day Like This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike officially turns forty. There's a special gift, a meaningful visit and a final celebration before the weekend draws to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What made me behave that way?  
> Using words I never say  
> I can only think it must be love  
> Oh anyway, it's looking like a beautiful day
> 
> 'Cause holy cow, I love your eyes  
> And only now I see the light  
> Yeah, lying with you half awake  
> Oh, anyway, it's looking like a beautiful day  
> So throw those curtains wide  
> One day like this a year would see me right 
> 
> One Day Like This - Elbow

Cormoran Strike awoke on the morning of his fortieth birthday in an unfamiliar bed, with the equally unfamiliar sensation of being completely at peace.  
  
He rubbed his eyes opened and blinked as he took in the sight next to him. Robin’s head rested on the pillow next to his, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, breathing steady. A sliver of early morning sun was filtering through a gap in the curtains and setting her strawberry blonde hair ablaze as it fanned over her bare shoulders.

He thought back to the previous evening, searching his memory for anything that might not be quite right about the situation he found himself in, and found nothing. He had meant every word he’d said, there were no regrets, no anxieties about what came next. He could only hope that when Robin awoke, she’d feel the same way. He was cautiously optimistic.

He slipped out of bed as quietly as possible, put his boxers on, attached his prosthesis and made his way first to the bathroom, then to the kitchen where he made two mugs of coffee and took them back to the bedroom.

Robin was half-awake as he entered the room and placed the mug on a coaster on her bedside cabinet. One eye opened and she smiled slowly up at him.

“Morning…happy birthday.”

“The happiest,” he confirmed, bending to kiss her before climbing back onto his side and wrapping an arm around her as she sat up and reached for the mug.  
She took a long sip of hot coffee, replaced it on the table and snuggled into his chest, reaching an arm around his waist and pulling him closer, before raising her head again to look at him.

“Okay?”

“Perfect,” he murmured, planting a kiss on her forehead, “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m the man whose birthday wish came true.”

She grinned and kissed his shoulder, clutching the duvet to her chest as she wriggled upright and reached away from him and into the drawer of her bedside cabinet. She pulled out a small package, neatly wrapped in navy blue paper and topped with a gold bow.

“Happy birthday,” she said again, handing it to him.

“But you already chipped in to the season ticket?”

“This is different. I wanted to get you something just from me,” she paused. “Ilsa told me about my necklace, about where it was made and what it meant. I wanted you to have something similar from me.”

She watched as he unwrapped the navy blue paper and opened the matching box to reveal a gold chain carrying a St Christopher pendant.

“I know you’re not really religious and you don’t normally wear jewellery these days, but Ilsa told me you used to have one, when you were in the army…”

“I did,” he smiled. “My mum gave it to me when I went to university. The chain broke at some point when I was in Helmand and I never found it.” He turned it over and traced the numbers etched on the back with his finger, his mouth curving slowly into a smile.

“The date we signed our partnership agreement?” He looked at her tenderly and she nodded silently.

“I love it,” he said, “…and I love you.” He pulled her into a tight hug and kissed her long and slow.

“I love you too,” she whispered.

* * *

Half an hour later they were sitting on the sofa, eating bacon sandwiches and drinking fresh coffee, when Strike paused mid-mouthful and looked at her.

“Robin, I know we don’t have to be at Lucy’s until half twelve, but do you mind if we make a move when we’ve finished these. There’s somewhere I need to stop off on the way.”

* * *

They stopped off at Waitrose first, Robin collecting provisions for the coming week in the office, whilst Strike picked up the necessary niceties for their visit to Lucy’s, arriving at the checkout with two bottles of wine, chocolate, magazines and sweets for his nephews and three bouquets of flowers. On arrival back at the car, he handed one to Robin before climbing into the driving seat.

“Thank you, for all the work you put in to organising yesterday.”

“My pleasure,” she beamed, happily taking in the mixture of pinky purple blooms, the colour of which reminded her of the bouquet they’d used in the Landry reconstruction. “Where to next?”

“You’ll see,” he replied.

Fifteen minutes later, after a journey in the opposite direction to the one Robin was expecting, they pulled up outside a set of gates bearing signage that made the reason for the multiple bouquets immediately clear.

She looked at him from the passenger seat as he sat and gathered himself for a minute, then reached across and squeezed his hand.

“You’re visiting your mum?”

“No,” he replied, looking over at her, “We’re visiting my mum…if that’s ok with you?”

“Of course, it is.”

Taking the bouquet of autumn flowers and foliage from the back of the BMW, they made their way hand in hand through Whitechapel Cemetery.

They spent half an hour at Leda’s grave, Strike reminiscing about his mother while Robin listened, head on his shoulder, not letting go of his hand.

“Thank you...again,” he murmured, dropping a kiss on the top of her head before pulling them both to their feet, “Best get to Lucy’s now. We’ll be in all kinds of trouble if we throw off the timing of Sunday lunch.”

* * *

At Lucy’s they were greeted enthusiastically by Jack and his siblings, and a bit more calmly by Ted, Joan and Nick and Ilsa

The latter had just about managed to beat her hangover into submission with a combination of Resolve and one of Nick’s revolting but effective smoothies, and had not forgotten Robin’s text of the previous night however, and was watching her best friends like a hawk.

It was Lucy, however, who caught Strike and Robin stealing a kiss in the utility room as they helped themselves to drinks and shrieked loudly enough to break the news to everyone else that they’d finally got together.

The birthday toasts started in earnest after that. Jack high-fived Strike and asked Robin if he needed to call her Auntie now, and she was officially welcomed into the family she already felt very much a part of.

They ate roast beef with all the trimmings followed by sticky toffee pudding and custard, chatting over coffee before dropping Ted and Joan off for the overnight train back to Cornwall.

As they left Paddington, they passed a newsstand. Robin tried to look surreptitiously at the magazine covers but Strike sensed her distraction and followed her gaze which had alighted on a cover featuring Charlotte and Jago at their renewal of vows of ceremony.

He turned her away from the rows of celebrity gossip and pulled her into his arms.

“I don’t care,” he said honestly. “Good luck to the pair of them.”

She smiled up at him, knowing he meant every word.

“C’mon,” he said, “Let’s go home.”

And they did.


End file.
